Fabulous article here.
Every so often I wonder: what is the point in writing about two people fucking when there are wars in the world.
Then I remember that painting a picture of a computer will not make my artwork more relevant to the modern world. (And that depending on who you ask the modern world does not exist.) Being more honest might make my artwork more relevant. I think of the Frank O Hara poem, Why I am Not a Painter, and wonder if there is possibly nothing more relevant than two people fucking, why they are fucking and how, and what happens afterwards.
Outside, my neighbours are hosing down the flagstones because there is too much gravel on them. Last week, a truck brought a tonne of gravel to fill in the gaps in the parking lot where the stones had worn away. He seems to spend his life moving small pieces of gravel from one place to another. I hate his shirts. He gets drunk on a Friday and makes crass jokes. He's rich as fuck, and he worked hard for his money. His wife is perfectly styled with pink lipstick.
Futility is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.